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As I drag my stocking feet through this threshold between the dining room and the living room, I carry what's left of you: a mug with your face on it. Somehow your mug always ends up near mine, the faces pressed together in a plastic kiss. When I wash the cups in the dishwasher, they tumble about in the suds, end up in the bottom, in the hot rinse. From the window I watch the garbage truck labor uphill to our cul-de-sac. What's left of you now lies on the curb inside a garbage bag. The garbage man picks up your remains, tosses them into the air, into the truck. They make a minor pirouette en route. You were so pretentious.